On the third morning, I walked twelve steps.
They were terrible steps.
The first looked more like falling forward and catching myself before the floor did.
The second required both hands on the parallel bars.
By the fourth, my legs were shaking.
By the eighth, Daniel had moved close enough to catch me without pretending otherwise.
At ten, my right knee buckled.
I caught myself.
At eleven, my arms almost gave out.
At twelve, I stopped.
Not because I wanted to.
Because my body did.
Daniel stood beside me with his arms crossed.
“Done.” “Thirteen.” “No.” “One more.” “You said that at nine.” “I was lying.” “I know.” I tightened my grip.
My hands were developing blisters again.
That made me weirdly happy.
“Akio.” “Thirteen.” Daniel sighed.
“Fine.” I moved my left foot.
My leg trembled.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then my foot landed.
Thirteen.
I smiled.
My right leg immediately collapsed.
Daniel caught me beneath the arms.
“Still counts.” “It absolutely does not.” “Foot touched the floor.” “That isn’t walking.” “Sounds like jealousy.” “Of what?” “Thirteen.” He lowered me into the wheelchair.
I hated the wheelchair less than yesterday.
Still hated it.
Progress.
Daniel handed me a towel.
I wiped sweat from my face.
“You know most people recovering from severe muscular atrophy don’t treat rehabilitation like a competition.” “Most people are weak.” Daniel stared at me.
I looked at my legs.
“Bad audience.” “Extremely.” I laughed.
That hurt my stomach.
Everything still hurt somewhere.
But each morning, there was slightly less of it.
The first day, sitting upright had exhausted me.
The second, I stood for almost a minute with support.
Today, thirteen steps.
My body hadn’t forgotten everything.
It just needed reminding.
That was what Daniel said.
I liked that better than broken.
“Again this afternoon?” I asked.
“Mobility, yes.
Walking, no.” “Why?” “Because your body rebuilds during recovery.” “I recovered for three and a half years.” Daniel’s expression changed.
People did that whenever I joked about the ice.
Nobody knew whether they were allowed to laugh.
I hadn’t figured it out either.
“Different kind of recovery,” he said.
“Convenient.” He started pushing my chair toward the medical wing.
I looked back at the parallel bars.
Thirteen.
Tomorrow, twenty.
President Cross’s seventy-two hours ended at 9:14 that morning.
She didn’t come.
At 9:15, I started watching the clock.
9:30.
10:00.
10:47.
Physical therapy.
Lunch.
More medical tests.
2:13.
No President.
By 3:00, I decided she was avoiding me.
By 3:30, I decided that if she hadn’t appeared by dinner, I was going to find a phone.
I had no idea how.
But I’d escaped one impossible prison this week.
A government medical wing felt manageable.
At 4:06, my door opened.
Cross walked in.
“You’re late.” She checked her watch.
“I didn’t give you a meeting time.” “You said seventy-two hours.” “I said give me seventy-two hours.” “It’s been seventy-eight.” “Then I’m six hours late.” “Correct.” She closed the door.
No security this time.
She carried a tablet and a thin folder.
The blank document from yesterday was gone.
I noticed immediately.
“So?” Cross pulled the chair closer.
“So you’re medically stable.” “Great.
Call my mom.” “Your Core is active and continuing to stabilize.” “Great.
Call my mom.” “We found no evidence that the containment phenomenon is rebuilding.” “Great.
Call my mom.” “Your physical recovery is progressing faster than expected.” “President Cross.” She stopped.
“Call my mother.” Cross looked at me for several seconds.
Then she placed the tablet on the table.
“Before I answer that, I need to show you something.” “No.” “Akio.” “No.” “This matters.” “My mom matters.” “Yes.” “Then why is she still sitting somewhere thinking I’m frozen?” Cross didn’t answer.
I hated the silence more than an argument.
“Did she come here?” “Yesterday.” My stomach dropped.
“What?” “She attempted to visit.” “And?” “The facility told her the containment wing remained closed because of instability.” I stared at Cross.
“She was here?” “Yes.” “In this building?” “Yes.” “How far away?” “I don’t know exactly.” “Stop.” Cross went quiet.
I threw the blanket aside.
“What are you doing?” “Getting up.” “Akio.” I swung my legs over the bed.
My feet touched the floor.
Cross didn’t move to help.
Good.
I pushed myself upright.
My legs shook.
I grabbed the bedrail.
“Where’s the exit?” “Sit down.” “No.” “Your mother isn’t here now.” “Then I’ll go home.” “You can’t.” “Watch me.” “You walked thirteen steps this morning.” I looked at her.
“How do you know that?” “I’m the President.” “That’s creepy.” “It was in your medical report.” “Still creepy.” My right leg trembled harder.
I hated that my body was ruining my argument.
Cross waited.
I lasted maybe ten seconds before sitting back down.
“Happy?” “No.” “Could’ve fooled me.” She pushed the tablet toward me.
“Look.” I didn’t.
“Akio.” “I don’t care.” “You will.” I looked at her.
Something in her face stopped me.
Not authority.
Worry.
Real worry.
I took the tablet.
A video was paused.
News broadcast.
The date in the corner was from two years ago.
“What is this?” “Watch.” I pressed play.
A reporter stood in front of a massive stadium.
“Tonight, the nine young heroes known collectively as the Flag-Bearers completed their first nationally televised exhibition…” I stopped breathing.
The camera changed.
Nine people walked into the arena.
Older.
I recognized Benny first.
Green hair.
Of course.
Longer now.
He’d grown.
A lot.
He was smiling at the crowd like he belonged there.
He didn’t.
Benny belonged at my kitchen table stealing drinks.
Frank walked beside him.
Huge.
No other word for it.
His shoulders were broader.
His hair was different.
There wasn’t a crutch anywhere.
Alive.
Strong.
Emi followed.
She carried a lance.
Not a school weapon.
A real one.
Kenya.
Toma.
Paul.
Montiro.
Beth.
Then Threya.
I paused the video.
My finger stayed against the screen.
Cross didn’t speak.
Threya looked almost nothing like the girl from my photograph.
And exactly like her.
Longer hair.
Older face.
Different uniform.
She stood straighter.
More confident.
But her eyes were the same.
I knew them immediately.
“That’s…” My voice failed.
Cross waited.
I played the video.
The Flag-Bearers demonstrated their abilities.
Benny covered an entire arm in metal.
Frank transformed into something that barely looked human beneath layered steel.
Toma froze half the arena floor without touching it.
Paul threw explosive spheres with control I had never seen from him.
Emi’s lance left a streak of violet behind it.
Poison.
Threya lifted a section of the arena floor.
Not cracked it.
Lifted it.
Hundreds of tons of stone rose like it weighed nothing.
The crowd screamed.
I stopped the video again.
“They got strong.” “Yes.” I smiled.
I couldn’t help it.
“They actually did it.” Cross said nothing.
“Idiots.” My eyes burned.
“They actually became heroes.” “Not fully licensed yet at the time of that recording.” “Still.” I wiped my face.
Cross pretended not to notice.
I appreciated that.
“Is there more?” “A lot.” “Show me.” “Akio—” “Show me.” She did.
Not everything.
That would’ve taken days.
But enough.
News clips.
Interviews.
Training exhibitions.
Articles.
Photos.
The Flag-Bearers became famous slowly, then all at once.
There were debates about them.
Arguments over whether the Emory Incident had changed their Cores.
People who thought they were inspiring.
People who thought they were dangerous.
People who thought nine teenagers should never have been turned into public figures.
People who bought shirts with Benny’s face on them.
I laughed so hard at that one my ribs hurt.
“I need one.” Cross looked confused.
“One what?” “Benny shirt.” “Why?” “To ruin his life.” She almost smiled.
Then she showed me the next video.
An interview.
All nine seated across a wide studio.
Recent.
Very recent.
I recognized their voices before their faces.
That hurt.
The interviewer asked about training.
Hero work.
Their futures.
Then: “Every member of the Flag-Bearers survived the Emory Incident three years ago.” The room on the screen changed.
Not visibly.
I knew them.
I felt it.
The interviewer continued.
“Much of the public credits another student with helping make that possible.” No.
Benny stopped smiling.
Threya looked down.
My stomach tightened.
“Akio Kita.” Hearing my name through the speakers felt wrong.
The interviewer turned toward Frank.
“You’ve spoken publicly before about his actions.” Frank nodded.
“He saved my life.” I stared at him.
“Literally.
Not in some dramatic interview way.
I would’ve died.” The interviewer asked, “Do you still visit him?” Frank’s jaw tightened.
“When I can.” Threya looked toward him.
The interviewer shifted.
“Do all of you?” Nobody answered immediately.
I wanted to turn it off.
I didn’t.
Benny spoke.
“Yeah.” Lie.
Not completely.
“Not as much as we used to.” There it was.
Benny rubbed the back of his neck.
“We’re away a lot.” The interviewer nodded sympathetically.
“That must be difficult.” “I don’t really want to talk about that.” Good.
The interviewer changed direction.
“What do you think Akio would say if he could see what you’ve become?” Silence.
Longer this time.
Then Threya spoke.
“He can.” My heart stopped.
The interviewer blinked.
“What?” Threya looked directly at the camera.
“I don’t know if he can hear us.
Doctors say he can’t.” I CAN.
“But he’s still there.” I gripped the tablet.
“So I don’t like talking about him like he isn’t.” Nobody spoke.
Threya looked down.
The interview moved on.
I paused it.
The room around me blurred.
Cross waited.
“She still…” I couldn’t finish.
“Yes.” I wiped my eyes.
“How recent?” “Five months.” Five months.
I watched Threya’s frozen face on the screen.
She still believed I was in the ice.
Because Cross had made sure she did.
Anger returned.
Different now.
Sharper.
“You showed me this to make your point.” “Partly.” “What point?” “That the world remembers Akio Kita.” “I never asked it to.” “I know.” “Stop saying that.” Cross nodded.
I set the tablet down.
“You said you’d decide after seventy-two hours.” “I did.” “And?” Her eyes dropped toward the folder.
Then back to me.
“If I publicly announce your recovery, I can protect you.” I waited.
“You would remain here initially.
Once cleared, you’d be transferred to a secure residence.
Your mother would be informed and brought under protective supervision.” My stomach tightened.
“Protective supervision.” “Yes.” “You mean watched.” “Yes.” “My friends?” “Any contact would be controlled.” “No.” “Your medical information would become a matter of government security.” “No.” “Your awakening would trigger international interest immediately.” “I said no.” Cross stopped.
I looked at her.
“What’s the other option?” She was quiet.
I knew.
The folder.
“What did you come up with?” Cross opened it.
There were documents inside.
Not blank anymore.
She didn’t hand them to me yet.
“We separate you from the Emory case.” “How?” “You recover privately.” “Okay.” “Your awakening is evaluated privately.” “Okay.” “You learn what has changed while you’ve been gone.” “Fine.” “Officially, Akio Kita remains in containment.” I stared at her.
“For how long?” Cross didn’t answer immediately.
“How long?” “Potentially indefinitely.” The room became silent.
“No.” “Listen first.” “No.” “Akio.” “My mom thinks I’m in there.” “We would maintain the containment record.” “There’s no containment.” “The exhibit has already been moved to a restricted preservation wing.” I stared.
“There is no exhibit.” “No.” “So what happens when Mom visits?” “She would be told the shell cannot currently receive visitors due to instability.” “Forever?” “No.” “Then what?” “We develop a controlled transition.” “That means nothing.” “It means I haven’t solved that part yet.” I laughed.
No humor.
“So your plan is lie to everyone.” “My plan is keep you from becoming property.” I stopped.
Cross’s voice had changed.
Harder.
“Because that is what will happen, Akio.” “I’m a person.” “Legally, yes.
Politically, medically, scientifically?
There will be people who spend the next decade testing how far that word protects you.” I didn’t answer.
“The shell preserved a human being for three and a half years.
Your Core activated during the process.
Nine other students exposed to the same event developed anomalous growth.
You are the son of Lutoro Kita.” “Stop bringing him into this.” “I can’t.
Neither can you.” I looked away.
Cross continued more quietly.
“If the world learns you woke up today, you will never get to be seventeen.” That landed.
I looked at her.
“You’ll be the Emory survivor.
The containment boy.
Lutoro Kita’s son.
The possible source of the Flag-Bearer phenomenon.
The first person to survive prolonged relic containment.” “I survived it.” “Yes.” “Then why do I have to disappear?” “Because surviving something doesn’t mean you owe the world access to you.” I had no answer.
Cross finally removed the first document.
She placed it in front of me.
No name.
Not yet.
“What’s this?” “A sealed civilian identity.” I looked at her.
Then the paper.
Then her again.
“No.” “You haven’t even read it.” “I don’t need to.” “Listen.” “I said no.” “Akio Kita can’t walk out of this facility without the world following him.” “Then let them.” “You said you wanted to go home.” “I do.” “You can’t.” “Stop deciding that!” My voice cracked again.
Cross didn’t move.
“That’s my name.” “I am not asking you to stop being Akio.” I laughed.
“Really?” “No.” “Because this looks a lot like that.” “I’m asking you to let the world believe Akio Kita is still here while you get the chance to live somewhere else.” “That’s worse.” “I know.” “STOP SAYING THAT!” The monitor jumped.
I didn’t care.
I grabbed the document.
My hands shook.
“Fake birthday?” “Yes.” “Fake address?” “Yes.” “Fake school?” “Yes.” “Fake family?” Cross hesitated.
“Background.” “Fake family.” “If necessary.” I threw the paper.
It fluttered to the floor.
“No.” Cross watched it land.
“I won’t force you today.” “Today?” “You need time.” “I don’t need time.” “You’ve been awake for three days.” “After three and a half years.” “Exactly.” I stared at her.
“You don’t even know who you are yet.” My anger disappeared.
Not because she’d calmed me.
Because she’d said the wrong thing.
“I know exactly who I am.” Cross realized it too late.
“My name is Akio Kita.” “I didn’t mean—” “My mom is Komi Kita.” “Akio—” “My best friend is Benny.” My voice shook.
“My girlfriend is Threya.” Cross went silent.
“I went to Emory School of Magic and Powers.
I live in the same house I’ve lived in since I was little.
My room is upstairs.
There’s a dent over the kitchen doorway because I threw a broom when I was twelve.” Tears came again.
I hated how often that happened now.
“My dad couldn’t build a bed.” Cross said nothing.
“I hate mushrooms.
I like swords.
Benny steals my drinks.
Threya steals my food.
Emi thinks my rear foot is too wide.” I looked at the photograph beside me.
“I know who I am.” Cross’s voice was quiet.
“You’re right.” “Then don’t take it.” “I’m trying to keep it yours.” “By giving me another one?” “By giving the world another one.” That stopped me.
Not because I agreed.
I didn’t.
But I understood the difference.
I hated that.
Cross stood.
She picked up the document.
“I’ll come back tomorrow.” “Don’t.” “I will.” “I’ll say no.” “Then say no tomorrow.” She walked toward the door.
“President Cross.” She stopped.
“If I do this…” I hated myself for asking.
“…can I see them?” Cross turned.
“Eventually.” “That’s not good enough.” “No.
It isn’t.” “Can I see Mom?” Her expression tightened.
“Eventually.” I looked away.
“Get out.” She left.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the dark.
They’d started leaving a small light on for me.
Nobody asked why.
I appreciated that too.
The photograph sat on my chest.
I traced faces in the dim light.
Frank.
Paul.
Montiro.
Kenya.
Toma.
Emi.
Beth.
Benny.
Threya.
Me.
Fourteen.
I tried imagining walking into Benny’s house tomorrow.
He’d probably scream.
Then punch me.
Then hug me.
Probably in that order.
Threya… I couldn’t imagine that.
Mom was easier.
She’d slap me.
Not hard.
Then hug me until something broke.
Then ground me.
I smiled.
My eyes burned.
I wanted that so badly it hurt.
Maybe Cross was wrong.
Maybe the cameras wouldn’t matter.
Maybe the researchers wouldn’t matter.
Maybe I could just go home.
Then I remembered the tours.
Akio Kita.
The youngest hero.
Lutoro Kita’s son.
The boy in permanent containment.
I remembered strangers discussing my body while I listened.
Researchers asking whether they could drill into the shell.
Reporters asking Threya what watching me freeze felt like.
A whole world that had learned my name while I couldn’t speak.
I turned the photograph over.
Blank white backing.
Nothing written there.
I found a pen on the bedside table.
My hand still shook.
I wrote ten names.
Frank.
Paul.
Montiro.
Kenya.
Toma.
Emi.
Beth.
Benny.
Threya.
Then: Akio.
I stared at the last one.
Pressed the pen beneath it.
Hard enough to leave an indent.
Whatever Cross put on a piece of paper, that name stayed.
Mine.
The next morning, Daniel brought me to a rehabilitation room I hadn’t seen before.
Larger.
No parallel bars.
Training mats covered the floor.
A rack of wooden weapons stood against one wall.
I stared at them.
Daniel noticed.
“No.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your face did.” “Which one?” “The same one everyone says you make.” I looked at him.
“Apparently I have several.” “You’re walking today.” “I walked yesterday.” “You’re walking without bars today.” I looked away from the weapons.
“How far?” “Across the mat.” “That’s it?” “Without falling.” “Easy.” It wasn’t.
My first step felt naked without something beneath my hands.
Second.
Third.
My legs shook.
Fourth.
Fifth.
I nearly fell.
Recovered.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
At nine, something changed.
Balance.
Not strength.
I knew where my weight needed to be.
My foot turned slightly.
Rear foot.
Too wide.
Emi.
I corrected it.
Ten.
Eleven.
My steps became smoother.
Not good.
Better.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
I reached the other side.
Daniel looked at his tablet.
“Interesting.” “What?” “Your gait corrected unusually quickly.” “Emi would disagree.” “Who’s Emi?” “Someone terrifying.” I looked at the weapons.
“Can I?” “No.” “One swing.” “No.” “Hold one?” Daniel sighed.
“Akio.” “Please.” He considered.
Then walked to the rack.
He chose a wooden sword.
My heart beat faster.
He handed it to me.
The instant my fingers closed around the grip, something happened.
Not power.
Not light.
Nothing dramatic.
I simply knew.
My thumb was wrong.
I adjusted it.
My wrist aligned.
My stance shifted.
Rear foot moved.
My shoulders relaxed.
The sword became lighter.
Not physically.
In my head.
I knew where the point was without looking.
Knew the exact distance between the blade and the floor.
Knew how my wrist should rotate for a cut.
How my hips should follow.
How my front knee should bend.
How far my weak body could safely extend before balance failed.
Thousands of tiny answers arrived at once.
I froze.
Daniel noticed.
“What?” “I…” I lifted the sword.
My body trembled.
But my mind didn’t.
I stepped.
Cut.
Or tried to.
My arm moved too slowly.
My shoulder collapsed inward.
My grip weakened halfway through.
The blade stopped far from where I intended.
I stared at it.
Wrong.
Everything was wrong.
And somehow I knew exactly how wrong.
“Again,” I whispered.
Daniel moved closer.
“Careful.” I reset.
The stance came automatically.
Perfect in my head.
My body failed it.
I cut again.
Too slow.
Again.
My wrist couldn’t maintain the angle.
Again.
My legs lacked the drive.
Again.
Daniel caught the sword.
“Enough.” I tried pulling it back.
He was stronger.
Of course he was.
“Give it.” “Akio.” “Give it back.” “You’re shaking.” “I know.” I looked at my hands.
My entire body trembled from exhaustion.
But behind it was something enormous.
Not strength.
Understanding.
Every time I looked at the sword, answers appeared.
I knew how to hold it.
How to move it.
How to correct mistakes I hadn’t even known existed before.
I remembered Emi teaching me.
I remembered hours of practice.
This wasn’t that.
This was instant.
Complete.
Terrifying.
“What the hell…” Daniel was already calling medical.
I barely heard him.
I looked at the sword in his hand.
For the first time since waking up, something about the new world didn’t feel like it had left me behind.
Something had waited.
President Cross arrived an hour later.
By then, three Core specialists had asked me to hold six different objects.
A ball.
Nothing.
A staff.
Normal.
A knife.
Normal enough.
A practice lance.
I could tell which end to point at someone.
That was about it.
Then another sword.
Everything.
Different length.
Different balance.
Different grip.
Didn’t matter.
I knew.
Not its history.
Not who made it.
Not what metal it would’ve been if it were real.
But how to use it?
The answers were simply there.
Cross watched through the glass.
When she entered, I was exhausted.
A wooden sword rested across my lap.
“What did they tell you?” I asked.
“That your ability appears weapon-specific.” “Swords.” “Yes.” I ran my fingers over the wooden grip.
“Three and a half years waiting for a power.” Cross sat.
“Apparently it has a sense of humor.” “Bad one.” “Agreed.” She placed the folder on the table.
I looked at it.
“Really?” “You told me I’d say no.” “You will.” “Then why come?” “Because I said I would.” Fair.
Neither of us touched the folder.
Cross looked at the sword.
“Does it make you stronger?” “No.” “Faster?” “No.” “Can you do anything supernatural with the blade?” “Not that I can tell.” “What does it do?” I looked at the practice weapon.
“I know how.” “How what?” “Everything.” She waited.
“With swords.” I lifted it slightly.
My arm shook.
“I know exactly how I’m supposed to move.” I lowered it.
“My body just can’t do it.” Cross studied me.
That sentence seemed to interest her.
I didn’t know why.
Not yet.
“Useful,” she said.
“Eventually.” “Maybe sooner than you think.” I looked at the folder.
“Is this why you’re here?” “No.” “Then?” Cross opened it.
“Yesterday you said something important.” “I said a lot of things.” “You said you know who you are.” “I do.” “I believe you.” I wasn’t expecting that.
“So I’m changing the proposal.” I frowned.
“How?” “Your identity isn’t being erased.” “Sounds like it.” “Legally, Akio Kita will remain alive.” I waited.
“Your records remain intact.
Your birth remains intact.
Your relationship to Komi Kita remains intact in sealed government documentation.” “How generous.” Cross ignored that.
“The second identity would be protective.
Not replacement.” “Still fake.” “Yes.” At least she said it.
“Eventually, if circumstances allow, we can restore Akio Kita publicly.” “If.” “Yes.” I hated that word.
Cross removed the first page.
“While you recover, you would train under the second identity.
Learn the current hero system.
Learn your ability.
Learn how the world changed.” “Where?” “Initially here.
Later elsewhere.” “Emory?” “No.” “Why?” “Too many people know your face.” “I look different.” “Not enough.” I looked at my reflection in the dark television screen.
Longer hair.
Thinner face.
Older.
Still me.
“What would you change?” “Hair.” I touched it.
“Possibly colored contacts.” “My eyes?” “Blue is distinctive when combined with your family resemblance.” I frowned.
“My eyes are already blue.” “Exactly.” “So what color?” “We haven’t decided.” “No.” Cross raised an eyebrow.
“No contacts?” “No changing my eyes.” “Hair?” I thought.
Hair grew back.
“Maybe.” “Fair.” She set another sheet in front of me.
This one had empty fields.
LEGAL NAME: Blank.
I stared.
“You’re asking me?” “Yes.” “I thought the government already had some terrible name ready.” “We had several.” “How bad?” “Very.” “Examples?” “No.” “Coward.” Cross almost smiled.
“Choose one.” I looked at the blank line.
Nothing came.
Why would it?
Names were supposed to be given to babies.
Not seventeen-year-olds pretending not to exist.
“I don’t want one.” “I know.” I didn’t tell her to stop.
Not this time.
I looked at the Saturday photograph beside the bed.
Then the sword.
Then the blank line.
“What happens if I say no?” Cross answered immediately.
“We announce your recovery.” “And I go into protection.” “Yes.” “Mom too.” “Likely.” “My friends get dragged into it.” “Almost certainly.” “Could I see them?” “Yes.” That hurt.
The option I wanted existed.
It just came attached to chains for everyone else.
I hated that Cross had made the choice real.
I hated that she hadn’t lied.
“What would you do?” Cross leaned back.
“I’m not answering that.” “Why?” “Because you’re the one who has to live with it.” For once, that was the right answer.
I picked up the pen.
Held it over the blank line.
Nothing.
I couldn’t do it.
Cross didn’t rush me.
Eventually I put the pen down.
“Not today.” “Not today.” She gathered the papers.
“Leave that one.” She looked at the blank name sheet.
Then slid it back.
“All right.” She stood.
At the door, she stopped.
“Your mother came again this morning.” My chest tightened.
“Why are you telling me that?” “Because you deserve to know.” “Did she ask to see me?” “Yes.” “What did they tell her?” “That the preservation wing remains closed.” I looked down.
“Was she angry?” Cross actually laughed once.
“Very.” I smiled despite myself.
“Good.” “She threatened a federal administrator.” “Sounds like her.” Cross opened the door.
“Akio.” “Yeah?” “Whatever name eventually goes on that page…” She looked at me.
“…I’m not asking you to believe it’s more real than yours.” The door closed.
I stared at the blank line.
For a long time.
Then I picked up the pen.
Not to fill it in.
Under LEGAL NAME, without thinking, I wrote the first letter.
A My hand stopped.
I stared at it.
Then slowly crossed it out.
The mark remained visible beneath the ink.
I put the pen down.
I wasn’t ready to become anyone else.
But for the first time, I understood why I might have to.